Not Sick
by Random Ruth
Summary: Sherlock never gets sick. Ever. One-shot; now with added sequel!
1. Not Sick

Sherlock groaned and rolled out of bed, a sign of weakness that he would only show when alone. His mouth was like sandpaper, his throat was on fire and his limbs ached. Even after he bushed his teeth and had a shower, he felt terrible. His reflection in the mirror revealed that he was paler than usual. He stayed in his dressing gown, just for the hugging comfort of it and made his way to the living room.

John still wasn't awake yet but it wouldn't be long until he was, at least judging by the volume of Sherlock's ticklish coughing. Sherlock sat down on the sofa, his thinking only interrupted when he coughed. He was becoming irritated with his immune system for letting him get sick in the first place. He had cases to solve – he didn't have time to laze around like he was now. He could be lazy afterwards.

Ignoring the headache that thinking seemed to be inducing, Sherlock shuffled to the kitchen. The harsh sunlight streaming through the window was doing nothing to help his head. He made himself a cup of strong tea, a last ditch attempt to ease his suffering.

* * *

><p>When John made his first venture into the living room of the day, he found Sherlock sound asleep on the sofa, an empty mug left on the floor where it fell. His chin was resting on his chest and his head tipped forwards, so all John could see was curly hair. He was still in his dressing gown.<p>

"Sherlock?" ventured John, tip-toeing as quietly as he could over to his flatmate. There was no response. He shook the man's shoulder. "_Sherlock_," he repeated, a little louder this time.

Sherlock jerked awake, shouting, "It was the toaster!" He saw John's raised eyebrow and his mouth clamped shut. "Morning," he said, hoarsely.

"Morning," John echoed. He knew a sick man when he saw one, and since it was Sherlock, he didn't beat around the bush. "You're sick." His skin was pale, he was lethargic and he kept wincing when he swallowed. It didn't take a genius, just a good doctor.

"I'm not," Sherlock insisted. Of course he did.

"Then why are you in your dressing gown?" asked John.

"I don't feel like wearing clothes today."

John rubbed the bridge of his nose and screwed up his face. "Is there any way to un-say that sentence?"

Sherlock looked thoughtful for a moment. "Not that I know of."

"Okay. So you're not sick, then?" He decided that playing along with the clearly ill man would keep the peace for the moment.

"Absolutely not. Never. I don't get sick."

Sherlock coughed and tried to hide it behind a fake laugh, but it just made him cough even harder. John sighed and rubbed his back until the coughing subsided. When he was finished, Sherlock jerked away.

"Would you like some more tea?" asked John. A nod.

He went into the kitchen and waited for the kettle to boil, putting a bottle of cough medicine on the table and then, when he'd made the tea, he put the steaming mug beside the bottle.

Sherlock joined him when called and sat down at the table, giving the medicine bottle a distrustful look.

"Take the medicine and I won't ask Mrs Hudson to give it to you," said John. He knew that would work – Mrs Hudson did like to take care of 'her boys'. Once she finds out about Sherlock's cough, she'll be up and down with tea and biscuits several times a day.

He received a glare, but Sherlock dutifully took a spoonful of the foul, honey-coloured liquid.

"Just to clarify," he said, taking a sip of his tea, "I'm not sick."

"'Course not."


	2. Here Comes the ChooChoo Train

**A/N: **Firstly, thanks to everyone who reviewed _Not Sick_. Your reviews made my day way back in March and so as an extra thank you and in response to demand, here is a sequel (which turned out to be longer than the original fic)! This takes place in the days following _Not Sick_ as battle rages in 221B Baker Street... Enjoy! :)

* * *

><p><strong>Not Sick II: Here Comes the Choo-Choo Train<strong>

* * *

><p>John came into the living room from the kitchen holding the bottle of cough medicine in one hand and a teaspoon in the other. Sherlock attempted to bury himself further into the sofa. "I've already had that," he protested feebly. He sneezed; one hand groping for a tissue nestled between the sofa cushions and the other gesturing loosely at the bottle.<p>

"That was this morning, Sherlock," John replied, unwavering. "You need to take a spoonful four times a day, remember, like I told you yesterday. And the day before. And—"

Sherlock jerked his head up solely for the purpose of glaring at John. "Yes,_ I get it_," he snapped irritably. John ignored his flatmate's sudden dark mood and poured some of the honey coloured medicine onto the spoon. He held it out, but Sherlock petulantly kept his mouth firmly shut.

John waved the spoon in the air and tilted his head slightly forwards teasingly. His eyes were dancing as he said, "I'll say it."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes but didn't open his mouth. "I will..." John went on, taking a small amount of satisfaction from Sherlock's squirming. He held the spoon in front of Sherlock's nose. He sighed. "All right, Sherlock, if you _really_ want me to say it... _Here_—"

"No, for God's sake!" cried Sherlock, and he snatched the spoon from John's hand and shoved it into his mouth, wincing at the taste. He handed the spoon back to John and stuck his tongue out. "That... is horrible," he said.

* * *

><p>The next day the battle started once again. John poured Sherlock's medicine for him and handed him the spoon. "Take it," said John.<p>

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't need it; you said so yourself, that I am a lot better. You should throw this away in case I take too much, Doctor." He attempted hand the spoon back, but John's empty hand remained stubbornly at his side.

John's patience was an almost endless thing, but even he had his limits. "Stop being such a child and take the medicine, Sherlock." His voice was sharper than he intended it to be – he knew that getting into a fight with Sherlock about his health would get him absolutely nowhere. "Please," he added.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at the sudden change in tone. He plastered a false smile onto his face and said, "No thank you."

"You need the medicine or you'll feel crap all night," John reminded him.

"I'm not sick, I never was, now take your spoon back," Sherlock said. This time John did take the spoon back.

"Okay, if you're going to be like that," said John with a tiny smirk which made Sherlock instantly suspicious, and he took a few steps backwards so that he was just of Sherlock's reach, "then you won't mind if I – _Mrs Hudson!_"

Sherlock's grey-blue eyes widened in shock. "No... John..." he said frantically.

"_Mrs Hudson!_" John shouted again and Sherlock sprang to his feet.

"_Shut up_, John," Sherlock whispered harshly, and he attempted to clamp one of his hands over John's mouth but it was too late, for they could hear their landlady as she pottered her way up the stairs.

Sherlock sent John a glare that would kill, but the doctor just smiled sweetly back at him.

Mrs Hudson entered 221B with a light "Woo-hoo" which dented Sherlock's glare. She saw the spoon with the honey-coloured medicine on it and put her hands on her hips, adopting her motherly pose. "Sherlock," she said, "are you taking your medicine?"

Sherlock found himself staring at the floor. "I don't need it," he insisted. It was funny how petty the argument now sounded once it was directed at Mrs Hudson and not John. As if to prove the point, Sherlock coughed a few times without meaning to.

"Sounds like you do. Give me the spoon please, John," their landlady instructed, holding out her palm. John handed it over and took yet another step back.

Mrs Hudson held the spoon out underneath Sherlock's nose and he shrunk away as if the sight of the medicine physically hurt. "Come on, Sherlock, I haven't got all night to stand here coaxing you like a ten-year-old."

Sherlock flicked a glance at John who was barely hiding his amusement at the situation he'd created. Sherlock sniffed and took the spoon from Mrs Hudson with a heavy sigh. "All right, you win, Mrs Hudson, I shall take – _ha!_" As he spoke, Sherlock flicked the medicine-laden spoon in John's direction. The liquid hit John square in the face and he spluttered, wiping it off with his sleeve.

"_Sherlock!_" John and Mrs Hudson said together.

Sherlock took his chance and made a run for it.

* * *

><p>"Take the medicine, Sherlock."<p>

"No."

"I'll say it..."

"You won't, John. You never do."

"_Here comes the_..."

"I'm not listening."

"..._choo-choo train_..."

"Stop it."

"..._Open up! Oh no – we've hit an obstruction!_"

"John—"

"_And we're in the tunnel!_"

* * *

><p>John walked into the living room one morning to find Sherlock sitting rigidly on the sofa with an odd expression on his face. He didn't comment on it, putting it down to a blocked nose.<p>

He went into the kitchen and got Sherlock's medicine out of the cupboard. He unscrewed the lid with a look of determination upon his face; Sherlock was the trickiest patient John had ever treated, even though this was just a nasty cold. But John could be an incredibly stubborn man when he chose to be so.

He pulled out the cutlery drawer and frowned. "Sherlock?" he asked, loud enough to be heard in the living room. "Where are all of the spoons?" Half of the drawer was empty and all that remained were knives and forks.

"No idea," was the nonchalant response, but something in Sherlock's tone of voice made John look up and wander into the living room. John noticed that Sherlock's pyjama bottoms were... wider than usual.

Sherlock was sniffing a bit so he did have a blocked nose, but what really caught John's attention was the fact that he was just sitting there, wringing his hands together as if he was nervous. John chose his words carefully. "Are you okay?" he questioned. Sherlock's gaze was on the coffee table and didn't move.

"Fine," he replied.

Narrowing his eyes in suspicion, John scrutinised Sherlock as he sat still on the sofa. Sherlock sniffed again and swallowed. John noticed that he didn't wince, so his throat must finally be feeling better. "Okay," John said at length. "Can you stand for me?"

Sherlock addressed the coffee table as he said, "I'm quite alright here."

"You look a little swollen there, Sherlock. I'd like to make sure you're not getting ill with something else. Come on." John took Sherlock's hand and tried to pull him upright, but the consulting detective was too heavy, despite appearances. John folded his arms, tucking the medicine bottle into his dressing gown's pocket. Both stayed in silence for several moments. Eventually, John spoke up.

"You shoved the spoons into your trousers, didn't you?"

"Yes."


End file.
